


Time of Your Life

by ardellian



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking, Karaoke, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24758491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardellian/pseuds/ardellian
Summary: Ortega and Sidestep sing karaoke and avoid owning up to their feelings.
Relationships: Ortega/Sidestep (Fallen Hero)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	Time of Your Life

"What– What the fuck is this?" 

Marshal Charge just laughs, puts his arm around your waist and drags you away from the cab and onto the sidewalk. You consider jabbing him in the kidneys and running, but the warmth of his body is like a narcotic, and you just can’t make yourself pull away.

Even if that means being dragged into a karaoke bar at two o'clock in the morning. 

“It’s called fun, Miles.” Charge is drunk, and that’s why he’s mumbling; that’s why he leans in so close that you can feel the warmth of his breath at your ear. No other reason. “Ever heard of it before?”

“Public humiliation is not fun,” you protest, but you’re also drunk, and that’s why you lean into Charge’s bigger, sturdy frame; to keep you steady as the two of you waltz into the bar. Charge flashes a brilliant smile at the doorman and no one is going to keep a handsome young man like that from entering anything, even if he’s dragging someone like _Miles Becker_ with him.

Miles. 

That’s your name. Every time he calls you by it, it feels a smidgen more real. Miles Becker. A perfectly normal, bland, and common name. _Your_ name. Maybe Miles is the kind of man who would sing karaoke; you’re certainly drunk enough to try.

Charge pulls you along through the mostly empty tables, not letting go of your waist. You don’t know what to do with your arms, or where to look - every time you catch a glimpse of his grin you feel like your insides are trying to turn into your outsides. It’s a terrifying, unpleasant and utterly irresistible feeling. 

The place is emptying out, which is a minor blessing. Less witnesses. The ones still here are all drunk anyway; the thoughts you can pick up on through the alcohol induced fog in your own head are all disjointed and unfocused. No one will remember you. 

“What song do you want?” Charge asks, his breath warm on your ear; too close. The music isn’t that loud. 

“You pick,” you mumble. Not loud enough; suddenly it’s your mouth by his ear - why is the man so goddamn close? “You pick!” you repeat, slightly panicked. 

Charge laughs, much too delighted, and you realize too late that you’ve made a terrible mistake. “Great! You get the beer; I pick the songs!” He lets you go – cold air rushes in like a punch to the solar plexus, and the wink is a knock-out.

You have to take a second to regain your balance as he saunters off towards the stage and the DJ. This is going to be terrible. 

As soon as you gets the beer you chug half of it – there is no drunk enough for this. Then somehow Charge is the one holding the glasses, and you’re being ushered up on a stage and for a moment you freeze. They are all looking at you. What if they _see_ you? 

The sharp sound of a wolf whistle snaps you out of it. 

Of course it’s him – thumb and index finger jammed between his lips, leaning against a bar table with an effortless grace that has at least one woman in the room staring at him dreamily, undressing him in her mind. 

Oh god.

That does not help at all. 

Then the music starts, and you almost give up on the whole thing; trying to act normal; to fit in; to have friends. Not worth it. Not if this is the price. You should just forget about it and go back to living in a dumpster. Except Charge is laughing so hard he’s spilling beer all over the table, and he looks genuinely happy – so maybe it’s working. You want to be his friend so badly it hurts, and if you back down from this challenge, you’re never going to live it down. 

So you set your shoulders, smooth your face out, and brace yourself. It’s a stupid sappy ballad and no one could possibly sing this with a straight face, but you’re going to to fucking try anyway.

Shit, you can feel yourself blushing. Heating up like a light bulb. It’s because you’re drunk, because Charge got you drunk and you can’t control your face anymore. Fucking asshole and fuck him for grinning from ear to ear like that – you turn towards the lights which thankfully puts your meager audience into shadow. 

Why did you agree to this in the first place? To make Charge think you’re normal? To make him stop pouting? Just to see him smile? 

You close your eyes and focus on the singing. It’s not out of your range, and if you’re going to embarrass yourself, you might as well commit to it. 

Three excruciating minutes later, the music finally stops, and you quickly stumble off the stage to a smattering of applause – and Charge’s hooting. You feel like you might spontaneously combust, sweat running along your spine and hands shaking. You refuse to avert your eyes from Charge’s, though. Backing down now would make the whole thing pointless. 

“That,” he says, handing you back your beer, “was amazing.” He puts an arm around your shoulder and shakes you less gently than you think he intended. “I knew you were hiding something under that terrible fashion sense.” 

You snort, and thankfully takes a swing of beer. “Unlike _some_ , I don’t need everyone to pay attention to me all of the time.” 

Charge chuckles and puts his own glass down. He squeezes your shoulder once, and then leans in conspiratorially, and says, “It’s not really everyone’s attention I’m after, you know.” Then he leans away again with a smug expression, walks backwards a few steps and winks at you before skipping up to the stage. 

_Fuck_. How does he _do_ that? 

Every eye in the bar is focused on him when he starts to sing – it’s fucking Bryan Adams and he’s completely shameless. He keeps his gaze straight on you, and sings the most ridiculous things, completing the act with gesturing and a self satisfied grin. 

He’s a good singer; of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be? Half of the remaining people in the bar are thinking about getting him into bed; the other half wants to be him. And then there’s you, burning up from the inside and doing your best to not let it show how off balance you are. You were trained to express only carefully manicured emotions – the only kind you’re supposed to have – you should be _better_ than this. Of course fighting to look unaffected only makes Charge try even harder.

“Well, Mr. Stoneface,” he laughs when he’s _finally_ done. “How terrible was I?” 

You purse your lips in your best impression of an art critic. “A bit heavy on the melodrama. Slightly off pitch, but not entirely unbearable.” 

Charge puts his hand over his heart in mock outrage. “Ouch! No pulling your punches today, I see.” 

You shrug, and then can’t help it; you grin. This is the Marshal of the Los Diablos Rangers, an absolutely fearless fighter with military grade mods that could kill anyone in here with a touch – and he is _ridiculous_ . Are people really allowed to be like this? This exuberant, this... _silly?_

Ten minutes later, you’re belting out _The Time of My Life_ together – Charge is doing the woman’s part and his voice breaks on the high notes.

At three AM the bar closes, and with Charge’s arm around you again, you stumble out onto the street, into a cab, and somehow you don’t manage to protest enough at his suggestion you should crash at his place. 

At three thirty AM, you almost fall on your face into Marshal Charge’s hallway. 

You’re saved by a hand grabbing your arm from behind, yanking you around and then you slam right into a warm chest. You straighten up, and there’s that face, that heavy-lidded look and almost-smile which is way too close for comfort again. Charge’s breath smells of beer and whiskey, his cheeks are flustered, and his eyes hazy. He’s very drunk. He’s very close. 

You’re unable to move. 

“You okay, Charge?” you breathe, eventually, when the other man does nothing but stare. Stare at your lips? Oh god, that can’t–

“Ortega,” he replies, quietly. “Everyone calls me Ortega in private, except you. Ricardo’s fine too. If you like that better.”

You swallow. Ricardo Ortega is _not_ about to kiss you, that’s ridiculous, it happened once when he thought you had died – he’s just wasted and besides, he’s dating some girl. “Fine. _Ortega_. Are you going to move, or did someone nail you to the floor?” 

Whatever spell Ortega was under, it breaks, and he grins again before stumbling past you, out of the hallway and into the sitting room. He kicks his shoes off into a corner, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. 

“Bed or couch?” he says, voice muffled by his undershirt as he pulls it over his head. The silvery ports along his spine reflect the streetlights from outside the windows; it’s beautiful. He’s terribly fit; every muscle on full display, like a living breathing anatomy chart.

“What?” you say stupidly. 

“You want the bed or the couch?” Ortega repeats, turning back towards you as you step out of your shoes and pull your sleeves down, terribly aware of what’s covering you from forearms to calves, and what a contrast that is to Ortega’s soft brown skin and dark hair. 

You need to answer the question.

What was the question?

“The couch is fine,” you manage to say, as Ortega starts unbuttoning his pants. You just stand there – next to the couch now, so seems your feet are still working even though your brain isn’t – while Ortega jumps around on one leg, cursing as he tries to get his pants off. 

“It’s always nice to see the grace and power of Los Diablos' finest hero in action,” you drawl, trying to break the tension by being glib. Is there tension? Is it just you; are you badly calibrated? It’s so hard to tell when the other man’s mind is nothing but noise. 

Ortega grunts and throws his pants at you with a rude insult in Spanish.

“Hey, I call ‘em like I see ‘em,” you laugh, and pull the rumpled black fabric off your face. 

Then there’s a moment of silence. You, by the couch, covered from top to toe in two layers of dense fabric and clutching Ortega’s flimsy pants to your chest, and Ortega – seven feet away in nothing but underwear, with a strange look on his face. You don’t recognize it. He seems bewildered, almost like he’s been knocked on the head, eyes flickering from you to the ceiling and back, mouth slightly open. How much alcohol did he have, exactly?

“Goodnight?” you say weakly. 

“Yeah, goodnight,” Ortega echoes, and looks away, rubbing his neck. “I, uh... Just, ah... If there’s anything you need, just help yourself?” Then he spins on the spot and disappears into a dark doorway which you assume leads to his bedroom. 

With a sigh of relief you slump down onto the couch. 

You should leave. It’s a terrible idea to stay the night here – there’s too much of a risk of slipping up. If your shirt rides up while you’re sleeping; if Ortega wakes up before you...

Your insides churn in a completely different way than earlier. You _can’t_ let that happen. You don’t quite dare claim that Ortega is your friend, but he’s _something_ . Something that makes you feel... real. Like you could actually be _real_. Have an actual life. You can’t lose that.

But you’re also way too drunk for safely getting back to your own place across the city, in the middle of the night, on your own.

Instead you find a blanket, and after tucking pants into socks and undershirt into boxers you roll up into it so that it covers everything below your nose. It will have to do. You usually don’t move much when sleeping. And you’ll try not to sleep too deeply, so you can make sure you’re up before Ortega. Maybe you’ll be sober enough to leave before he even wakes up.

When you close your eyes, the image of him pops into your head without invitation. Ortega, without clothes, who keeps staring at you like he’s... 

It’s _stupid_ to be flattered. It’s stupid that your insides feel like they are alive, twisting and turning at the thought of Marshal Charge in his underwear, staring at _you_. Is this what they call butterflies? It’s a terrible misnomer. It’s like worms; like snakes trying to eat you up from the inside. 

The flirting was just supposed to be a thing to throw him off; he’s too pushy, too close, and it had allowed you to gain the upper hand. At first. Until he started reciprocating, and now it’s _you_ being thrown off and flustered because it’s not like anything is ever going to come off it, not as if... 

You try not to think about it, try so hard to stop your mind from going there, but there it goes; oh shit; you’re imagining what it would have felt like if Marshal Charge of the Los Diablos Rangers had leaned in an inch further and kissed you. 

It’s stupid; it’s never going to happen; not again; it was once and it doesn’t count – Ortega only goes out with pretty girls and you don’t have any of _that_ – and what’s the point anyway, it can’t go anywhere; you are not real and don’t have anything to offer but smoke and mirrors. _Fuck ._ Why are you thinking about how it would feel to be one of those women that follow him here, who gets to touch him, put their hands in his hair and trace the edges of those mods and kiss him and oh god; you were doing so well the whole evening but now you’re lost; you’re too drunk to stop yourself from thinking and thinking and thinking and wanting. 

You’re not even sure _what_ you want; you always thought sex seemed a lot of mess for little gain but now you’re thinking of Ortega and the mess doesn’t seem so bad, suddenly it seems... Oh shit – why why _why_ have you suddenly lost control of _everything_ ? Thank _god_ Ortega is in a different room, deep in some drunken sleep, dreaming of that girl he’s been going on about, and not you, definitely not; now shut it down, you know how; don’t think; just let the spinning room drag you into sleep; yes; _good_...

The next morning you wake up with the sun and the taste of death in your mouth. Ortega is still sleeping; you leave before he wakes up.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Yes - I do shamelessly abuse semicolons and em dashes and I am so sorry.


End file.
